


All the Near Misses

by breathtaken



Series: All of Us [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Era, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are so many variables to manage: if he doesn't kiss them, if he doesn't stay, if he says no when he wants nothing more than to say yes, then he may yet come out of this unscathed.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Near Misses

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: canon levels of depression and alcohol abuse; anxiety/panic attacks; one brief mention of vomiting.
> 
> I'm indebted to [bowyer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer) for her comments.

#### Paris; February-April 1627

The days he doesn't regret being alive are the good ones.

He could have died scores of times over, and yet he's still here. The bullet he took in Saint-German-de-Laye, the stab wound to the thigh in the Ardennes that miraculously didn't bleed out. All the near misses.

He knows that someone like him could never hope to understand the workings of God; but God seems farther than ever from his grasp all the same.

He asked Aramis to pray with him once, but it felt too much like opening his chest and giving breath and life to all he's done, and when he opened his mouth no words would come.

He was in the street almost before he realised he'd bolted.

And now this.

He supposes he should be conflicted; but really, it just pales in comparison to everything else.

It's something men occasionally do, he knows that much; particularly men like them, who are soldiers or sailors. More than you'd think, though still nobody talks about it.

It's not _quite_ like this though, he suspects: taking one's pleasure on a long and lonely campaign is hardly the same as taking these men as his lovers.

He swore he'd never love again, and he means to hold himself to that.

The question, then, of what he's doing here remains unposed.

 

* * *

 

The last time he bedded them, they laid him down on his narrow mattress and managed to all three clumsily grind against one another to completion, taking turns to spill all over his stomach, before kissing him one on each cheek and stumbling off into the evening.

He didn't sleep that night, or the night after that.

Didn't go to the tavern for a week.

After the first refusal he finds all the subsequent ones grow easier, the resistance less. Distancing himself becomes so natural that when he realises that for several days he's done nothing but drink and stare at the walls every moment he's off-duty, he couldn't have said how it happened.

That's when they come to his door and refuse to take no for an answer; and once he's eaten something, been around other people for a few hours, maybe smiled at a joke or two or even made one himself, he remembers how to exist in the world again, like a long-forgotten skill.

After that he does everything he can to treat them as brothers again, but stops short of accepting any invitations to their lodgings. Just for now, he tells himself, until he can bear to feel their hands on him again.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't understand their patience with him. It's been months and he's never asked for anything, never made a suggestion, just simply waited for them to find the limits of their tolerance.

Aramis is the only person who can still make him angry; and Athos knows he angers him frequently in return. Yet Aramis is also the only one who can take Athos' cock in hand as naturally as if it was what God himself intended. Who when they're in bed together, looks at him just as he looks as Porthos, as if the two of them are his entire world.

Porthos is angry all the time these days, but never at either of them, which Athos can't get his head around. Anger directed at him he can at least contextualise, but Porthos saves for him a soft, sad expression which he thinks is pity at first until he realises it's something worse.

Empathy.

No wonder Aramis is angry with him so often.

 

* * *

 

There are so many variables to manage: if he doesn't kiss them, if he doesn't stay, if he says no when he wants nothing more than to say yes, then he may yet come out of this unscathed.

 

* * *

 

The last week in February, Aramis and Porthos disappear suddenly.

Athos assumes they're on assignment for the first few days, until it gets back to him that Aramis is laid up with a nasty case of stomach flu. After that he catches glimpses of Porthos around the garrison, but the man seems hardly there at all, probably nursing Aramis all the hours Tréville will spare him.

When Porthos eventually finds him, it occurs to Athos that maybe he should have sought them out before now. Perhaps. He's not sure if Aramis would have wanted him to see him.

"How is he?" he asks.

"Still pretty ill. But he should be over it in a couple of days." Porthos pauses, looking suddenly nervous. "He – said he'd be okay by himself this evening, if we wanted some time together. You and me."

"Alright," Athos replies, in surprised agreement.

Porthos nods, something in his expression intense and hopeful. "Should get back. I'll come round tonight."

From that moment, there's no room in Athos' mind for anything else.

That he might get the two of them separately as well as together had never occurred to him, and he's not sure how he feels about the idea.

 _More opportunity to fuck up_.

He doesn't know exactly when Porthos will arrive that evening, and it leaves him on edge: he drinks probably more than he ought while waiting, tries to read but finds himself just staring at the same page, not taking anything in.

By the time Porthos does turn up the evening has started to take on its familiar, desperate edge, and Athos finds himself unable to look the man in the eye or think of anything much to say. Without Aramis and his talent for smoothing things over, the situation feels immediately awkward. Athos pours them both drinks just for something to do, though Porthos leaves his untouched.

"You okay?" Porthos says suddenly, and Athos stills immediately at the heavy hand on his shoulder, realises he's not spoken for some time.

He gives the other man a rueful smile. "Just bad at small talk."

Porthos smiles back, something hungry in his expression. "We don't have to talk."

When Athos doesn't respond, he asks, "What would you like to do?"

It's like diving into opaque waters: he suddenly comes up blank, without a single idea of what he could say, and flounders for a few seconds.

Porthos' hand moves from his shoulder to his jaw – and _that_ snaps him out of it.

He pulls his face away. "Let's just lie down first," he replies, in a voice that's less assured than he wants it to be.

"Sure," Porthos kicks off his boots and crawls behind him on the bed. He encourages Athos onto his side with a hand, pulling his body back against his own chest. "Like this?"

"Like this," Athos repeats, closing his eyes and concentrating on the sensation of Porthos' body against his own, feeling his breathing settle.

He becomes gradually aware that Porthos is getting hard, erection slotting into the curve of his arse; pushes back experimentally, and is rewarded with a low growl before Porthos' mouth is on his neck, the contrast of soft lips and the scratch of his beard still new and unfamiliar.

Athos turns over determinedly, palming Porthos through his trousers and appreciating the way it makes him hiss – but when Porthos goes to reciprocate, Athos realises his own cock's not responded at all, and Porthos' face is so close to his own and it's all just _too much_ for a moment, and he sits suddenly upright.

"Did I do something wrong?" Porthos asks softly.

"No, not at all," he replies hurriedly, then breathing deeply, trying to slow himself down. "It's just – well."

They're the first people he's touched since –

He's already breaking his own rules.

Porthos wraps an arm around his middle. "We've done this before. What's different now?"

 _I'm sober_ , Athos thinks humourlessly.

That isn't true, though; he has no idea what makes today different from yesterday, or the other times he's let them – three, four times – and he knows from experience that mere wine has never been enough to stop the panic when it comes, in fact often makes it worse.

"I don't know," he replies eventually, looking fixedly at the wall and not at Porthos, but holding onto the other man's arm where it lies across his lap as if it's anchoring him. "Some days are just different."

"Is there something I can do?"

"A glass of wine, and then maybe just try and sleep."

"You want me to stay?" Porthos asks carefully, as if he's talking to a wounded animal.

His tone of voice makes Athos hate himself just a little more.

"Please," he replies in a small voice, and allows himself to be gathered in Porthos' arms, and leans against his chest, pathetically grateful for his touch.

 

* * *

 

He drinks on his own for five nights straight after that; won't see either of them socially, can barely bring himself to look at Porthos when they're both at the garrison.

When Aramis does eventually come back on duty, Athos can tell he's furious. In response, Athos continues to be nothing more or less than cordial, and just waits to see if there will be fireworks. Aramis lets it go this time, though, and doesn't speak to him at all.

He drinks even more heavily in response, finding he wants to be alone even less than he wants to be with them, despising his own weakness. He wants nothing, really; just to not exist for a while until the world rights itself again, and he stops feeling like he's drowning inside his own head.

He still makes it to the garrison every morning, but that's all he manages, the instincts of a soldier the only thing still stronger in him than the black dog upon his back.

After a week like this, Tréville calls the three of them up to his office.

Athos is expecting an assignment, but instead he gets a piece of paper with Tréville's own seal thrust into his hand. "Leave of absence, for you three for the next three days."

Athos frowns, confused. "I didn’t ask for this."

"No, but you'll take it." Tréville replies, expression unreadable. "If I see you here before Friday I'll have you court-martialled. Dismissed."

Athos looks at his brothers in surprise, _really_ looks at them for the first time in days. Aramis looks livid; Porthos guilty. _Oh_ , he thinks, thoughts coming slowly through the haze of drink.

"What is this?" he asks as coldly as he can manage, as soon as they're outside.

"Consider it an intervention," Aramis replies, one hand on his back, firmly steering him out of the main gate.

Is it that bad?

He supposes there's never been anyone to answer that question before.

"You're angry with me," he observes aloud.

"Shut up," Aramis growls, pushing him in the back unnecessarily, as if he really wants nothing more than to punch him.

Athos wishes he would just do it and get it over with.

"At least tell me how this works?"

Porthos answers this time. "We're going home. We're going to eat, sleep and dry you out as much as possible. And we're not going to leave you alone. _Have_ you been eating?"

Food, of course. He supposes that would have helped, if he'd thought of it; it normally does. "I don't remember."

When he's more sober, he supposes he will be ashamed of letting it getting this far, that they had to get Tréville involved. He needs to be able to be a soldier, even if everything else can go to hell.

 

* * *

 

His brothers are as good as their word, and much more than he deserves: bringing him hot food, and saying nothing when he brings it all back up again; allowing him a glass of wine when his hands start to shake; lying either side of him in Aramis' bed and keeping him grounded in their arms.

When Porthos wakes to find him sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night, shirt drenched in sweat, and crying silently, he's good enough to just lie him down again without asking what's wrong; and Athos doesn't tell, because how to say without sounding like a madman that he'd mistaken Aramis' sleeping form for his dead brother?

It's the first time he's ever scared himself, and marks the moment when he turns something of a corner. It's not enough to make him sober, but he doesn't want to feel like that ever again.

 

* * *

 

There's something about the combination of Aramis and Porthos together that makes him nervous. Even though they're supposed to be his… lovers, he supposes; the only word he has for what they've become, though it falls far short of encompassing.

Aramis' fierce protectiveness of Porthos, their long familiarity, their instinctive understanding of what the other needs that he's begun to catch glimpses of – how can he truly have a place next to that?

So far his contribution to this relationship has been a couple of mutual hand jobs and a whole lot of hassle for everyone.

 

* * *

 

The next time he lies with them, he can tell they've already talked about what they're going to do; and while it's faintly embarrassing to realise that he's a problem to be managed, he supposes it's nothing less than he deserves.

Aramis leans back against the wall, patting the mattress between his legs and looking up at him expectantly. Athos sits, allows him to remove his jacket and toss it aside, so they're both in their shirts.

"Close your eyes," Aramis instructs, and he obeys; and wonders after a moment why he hasn't thought of this before. It's easier when he doesn't have to look at either of them, can just focus on the sensation of Aramis' arm wrapping around him and pulling him back against his chest.

The other hand comes to stroke his hair as Aramis murmurs to him in Spanish – Athos' own Spanish is seriously rusty, but it's something about the ocean, he gathers that much, maybe a poem, he hasn’t seen the ocean in a year or more – and he supposes it's working, as before he knows it he's feeling more relaxed than he ever has in their presence.

"I had an idea," Aramis says softly, in French again, "where we just stay here like this, and Porthos sucks your cock. What do you think?"

The surprise makes him startle and open his eyes, but Aramis has a hand in his hair, which has always made him weak; and as he looks reflexively at Porthos, the honest-to-God overwhelming desire in the other man's eyes bypasses his brain and goes straight to his loins.

"Yes," he breathes, before he can talk himself out of it. "Do it."

This time he's starting to harden already as Porthos undoes the fastenings at his breeches and smalls and takes his cock out, and he shudders at the touch.

He can't look away as Porthos strokes him to hardness, then leans over to take his cock in his mouth, gripping the base between thumb and finger as he slides his lips up and down the shaft, caressing with his tongue.

Porthos is _good_ at this, and Athos has had it done for him before but never with such finesse. He wonders if it comes from having a prick of your own; wonders for a moment if he'll do this, which of them he'll get on his knees for.

He can't quite picture it.

Though maybe that's because he's too busy being mesmerised by the sight of Porthos' mouth upon him, and want blazes in him in a way it never has before, a desire singing through his body that's hungry and terrifying and that he instinctively rears away from, unable to bear it even as he never wants it to end.

"Let go," Aramis says in his ear, and Athos blinks stupidly, because let go of what?

Come, he supposes he means, but he doesn't understand it all the same.

He comes anyway not long after, silently, barely a gasp escaping, and feels the panic rise as the warm flush of arousal dissipates; and he would have run if it wasn't for their hands on him – Aramis still carding though his hair, Porthos stroking over his stomach – and he screws his eyes shut and grips the bedsheets until his knuckles are white and breathes, _breathes_ , until he starts to calm down.

"Athos. Athos."

He realises Aramis is saying his name, soft and insistent, and opens his eyes again to meet Porthos' worried gaze.

"You still with us?" Porthos asks, one hand on his knee.

"Yes," he says, and smiles as he realises he means it. "Yes."

"Good," Aramis replies. "Now, would you like to watch us suck each other?"

He's caught for a moment between _are you sure you wouldn't have more fun without me_ and _God yes_ and _is that even possible?_ and just says nothing, watching Porthos tuck his cock back into his smalls, feeling the panic bubble up again.

It's broken by Aramis' hand in his hair again, the other hand squeezing his shoulder and his lover's voice low in his ear. "We _want_ you to."

In answer he puts one hand on Aramis', the other on Porthos', squeezes their fingers; telling the dark part of his mind to back away. He _wants_ this, he's here. He's doing it.

"Yes," he says. "Show me."

In the end it makes perfect sense: the two of them lie head to tail and he stretches himself out behind, resting his head on Aramis' hip and watching Porthos take him in just inches from his own face, all their hands still joined. Like he's a part of this.

For the first time, the idea of not having what he wants is worse than the idea of having it.

 

* * *

 

The next few nights he drinks less than he wants to, feeling guilty as he imagines his brothers' eyes on him, judging him for sliding so quickly back into despair. He pours himself cups of wine instead of slugging it straight from the bottle, his only concession to them.

He starts to sleep again, though, twisting dreams of them writhing together, hands on his throat, his face, where he won't let them touch. It's enough to keep him away for another fortnight, though it's getting less and less easy to resist, to maintain his distance.

 

* * *

 

The next time he can't help but accompany them to Aramis' rooms, he decides he's not had nearly enough to drink when Aramis turns to him and says, "I think Athos should choose tonight."

His stomach lurches like he's falling, and he reflexively wraps a hand round the bedpost just to make sure he's still standing on solid ground. "I can't," he mumbles, searching for inspiration and coming up empty.

"Like hell you can't," replies Aramis, not unkindly. "You managed to summon up the courage to ask me to bed in the first place, you can decide what to do now we're here."

Athos sighs and shrugs, a gesture of defeat. "I was barely conscious at the time," he points out, but knowing Aramis is right.

Porthos leans back into Aramis' shoulder, fixing him with a steady gaze. "What are you scared of?"

"Self-discovery," Athos says wryly, though that's not really true; he's scared that his entire house of cards will come tumbling down around him if he lets them inside.

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Well, I for one am not doing anything more until you start to communicate with us. We've tried this the other way and I don't think it works particularly well, do you?"

Porthos shrugs as if to say, _What he said_.

Athos considers the situation as neutrally as he can, trying to block out the dark voice that says it's all starting to unravel; reminding himself that he wants this, that he chooses to be here.

He can't ask them – _no_ , but asking them to touch each other? Yes, he can start there.

"Undress each other, then," he says, letting just a hint of the commanding officer slip into his voice.

Aramis and Porthos kiss first (they're always kissing, and it shouldn't bother him but it does) before beginning to strip off, and he allows himself the rare liberty of appreciating the sight of their bodies, muscles shifting under skin as they remove each other's clothes, and the thread of desire in his blood that he's still not used to when he looks at them swells and blooms.

"Everything?" Aramis asks, hands at the laces of Porthos' smalls, tracing the outline of his lover's cock in a gesture that makes Athos suddenly feel like he can't draw breath.

"Everything," he confirms, kicking off his boots and drawing his knees to his chest on the bed, giving them as much of a stage as they could desire.

Once they're bare before him they embrace again, kissing hungrily, and something in his chest aches at the sight of it.

"Aramis. Lay Porthos on his back and –" he stalls, but presses through – "touch him everywhere."

"Gladly," Aramis smirks at Athos, before sending Porthos sprawling with a surprisingly aggressive shove to the chest. Athos feels his cock throb as he watches Aramis climb over him, stalking Porthos like he's some sort of prey, and jams his own hands behind his knees to stop him touching himself.

Aramis performs his instructions true to their spirit: his hands roam all over Porthos' body, sometimes in soft strokes, tickles, sometimes scratches and pinches that Athos is surprised to see Porthos responding to, his head thrown back and regular groans rumbling in his chest.

Aramis touches his cock, but doesn’t linger there, and it's only when Porthos growls, "Please, Athos," that Athos fully realises what's expected of him; and he opens his mouth and closes it again, face heating, unable to find the words.

Aramis sees his affliction at once, of course, and is good enough to rescue him from it. "Shall I show you something else Porthos likes?" he asks, a playful glint in his eyes; and Athos nods in silent gratitude, mouth dry, and gets a wicked grin in response. "Come over here then, sit next to me. And bring the oil with you."

Athos does as he asks, wondering if this is what he suspects it's going to be.

Sitting back on his haunches, Aramis takes his hands from Porthos for the moment and pulls Athos into an embrace, a hand winding into his hair and caressing gently, and Athos finds he's almost preening before he remembers himself and dips his forehead to Aramis' shoulder for a moment.

Aramis takes one of Athos' hands in his and presses it to his own hip, keeping the physical connection between them as he takes the bottle of oil from Athos' other hand and slicks up his first two fingers. "Do you know what I'm doing?"

"I believe so. Though I can't imagine it being pleasurable," Athos replies, a touch dourly.

Aramis chuckles. "Depends on the man. In my experience, it is if you do it right. Porthos, legs up."

Porthos obediently rolls his legs up to his stomach, holding them there with his hands and exposing himself to the two of them in a way that Athos finds overwhelming. He concentrates for a moment on the feeling of Aramis' skin under his hand, strokes circles into the other man's hip, trapped by the sight of Aramis' fingers sliding into Porthos' body.

And Porthos is responding, groans sounding like they're wrung from his core, almost a shout as Aramis changes the angle of his fingers.

Aramis' other hand finds Athos', and draws it round to lace their fingers together.

"Are you going to take him?" Athos can't help asking.

Aramis turns to smile at him, lightly kisses his jaw; and this time Athos doesn't feel the same urge to pull away.

"Not tonight. I'm just doing as you said, touching him _everywhere_." He winks. "Besides, I can make him spill just by doing this, without even touching his cock."

While Athos still considers their familiarity and understanding of each other, and feels he comes up short in comparison, he finds the greater part of him is just entranced by what he's seeing – and maybe a little curious. He had thought that being the passive partner would be uncomfortable at best, but to get such genuine pleasure from it…?

And it's not more than a minute before Porthos spills over his belly with a shout; cock untouched, just as Aramis promised.

Aramis tosses Porthos a cloth to clean himself, and wipes off his own fingers; and left to himself for a moment, Athos puts his head to his knees, closing his eyes. He's feeling… good about this so far, only a little shaky, though part of him as ever is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He's brought back to himself by a hand on his shoulder. "Decided what you want next?" Aramis asks playfully, and Athos' head spins for a moment as he realises they're not done with this at all.

"No," he replies; and finds he has nothing to follow it with.

"Then let me touch you?" Aramis asks, hand moving over his shoulder and up to the base of his neck; and that in combination with the other man's frank, appraising gaze is too much.

Athos jerks his head away reflexively. "No, I –"

How to explain that just to watch them together and be one of them is already enough? That he's not whole – he can admit that much to himself – not ready for them, not really, and that he doesn't know if he ever will be?

"I require nothing that you've not already given me," he replies; but cringes straight away.

It's not what he wanted to say, and he curses himself inwardly as he sees Aramis' face close in frustration.

"For fuck's sake, Athos!" Aramis mutters, standing up and folding his arms, pacing in the narrow aisle between bed and wall.

"Aramis!" Porthos rebukes – and Athos looks at him in surprise. He wasn't expecting to hear Porthos come to his defence, not when he understands Aramis all too well.

Aramis turns back to them, sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "It's not about what you _require_ , Athos, it's about what you _want,_ " he says tiredly. "You don't need to ration our love for you. It's not a well that can be exhausted."

Athos rubs his forehead, overwhelmed by Aramis' ability to just say what he thinks and feels so frankly. As usual, he has no idea how to respond. "Forgive me, I…"

Aramis sits down beside him again, drawing Athos in to lean against his chest. "I can see this isn't easy for you," he continues softly, "but if it's going to work, you have to at least allow yourself to try."

"That's hardly fair. He _is_ trying."

Aramis glares back at Porthos – _hurt_ , Athos realises for the first time. _He's_ hurt him in trying to preserve himself.

He's rarely felt so wretched.

"He's keeping his distance," Aramis replies, unmoved. "Athos, we love each other, and we want to love you too. But you have to accept our love."

"He's right about that," Porthos adds, shuffling over to the two of them and taking one of their hands in each of his. "We're not asking you for anything you don't want to give. Just don't shut us out."

Athos sighs, suddenly exhausted, rubs at his suddenly-stinging eyes. "You'd be better off without me."

"Too late for that," Porthos continues. "We chose this. We all did – including you – and we wouldn't have it any other way. Unless you _do_ want out?"

 _No_.

"I'm sorry. I'll try and be better."

"You don't have to be," Aramis replies, squeezing his hand. "Just be yourself."

And as Athos looks at his brothers and sees the warmth and love in their faces, the hope and reassurance, he realises he's had it backwards all this time. Everything he's done to try and keep himself safe has been futile, only hurting all of them, when the truth is that he fell for them long ago.

And staring his failures full in the face at last, he finds himself reassured: at least he can't fuck this up any worse than he already is doing.

It's Porthos he kisses first; Aramis, barely a second later.


End file.
